Choices
by Nerwende Artanis
Summary: At what point do our dreams become obsessions? AU short stories featuring Galadriel, Maedhros, and Fëanor
1. Galadriel

Disclaimer: I don't own Middle-Earth or any of Tolkien's characters, but they are so much fun to borrow! 

At what point do our dreams become obsessions? 

A collection of AU short stories.   
  


* * *

**Choices: Galadriel**

It's almost time. Just one final experiment and I'll be ready. 

It's a beautiful night. A night where anything could happen. The wind is still and the sky is clear. I pause a moment, looking at the evening star and remembering. 

I enter a clearing. My horse is waiting, along with the provisions I requested. My favorite traveling cloak is folded neatly over the saddle. Haldir arranged everything perfectly; it is a pity I can't thank him. I walk on. 

He's waiting by a tree, like I asked. "Where are you going, my lady?" 

"For a walk, Haldir." Good. It's working. I smile and walk on. He doesn't see me when I return to the clearing. 

The lightest of mental touches and he remembers only what I wish him to. The experiment was successful; it's time to see what else this Ring is capable of. 

Even as my uncle challenged Morgoth, I pound on the Black gate and cry my challenge. The gates swing open. _He_ stands before me now. 

I've matched wills with Sauron before, but only from a distance. Now I have a chance for vengeance. "We meet at last." He looks at me like he's examining a piece of metalwork. "Your reputation doesn't do your beauty justice, or mention your resemblance to your brother." _He_ would know. He had him killed! 

I've been waiting for this for a long time. 

I face Sauron confidently, raising my hand to block his attacks. Focusing on Finrod, I reach for the Ring's power to launch my own attack. 

The One Ring lies at my feet! As I reach for it, his next attack knocks me backwards. 

Only once before have I acted without caution or preparation. What madness possessed me this time? As he stands over me wearing the Ring, I doubt that I will get off so lightly again. 

I am forced to kneel before him, wrists and ankles tightly bound and a heavy iron collar around my neck. That particular humiliation is spelled to keep my body and spirit together and reasonably intact through anything short of a fatal wound. 

"Well-met and well-timed!" Sauron says. "I plan war and you know my enemies' secrets." 

"I am no traitor! I will not yield to your torments and lying promises." 

"I would not deal in lies if people did not prefer them to the truth." 

He puts the Ring on and uses Nenya to penetrate my mind, shattering my barriers as if they were nothing. His search is almost leisurely; he lingers over anything that might prove useful or anything he finds amusing. 

His idea of amusing is my idea of best-forgotten. 

I will not give him Nenya. Although the interrogation has left me drained and he shall surely take my Ring by force, I will not give in to his command so lightly. 

As he raises the One Ring, I find myself slipping Nenya off my finger. 

He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him, and I feel the Rings against my cheek. Never again will I hear Nenya's sweet song or feel the One's power flowing through me! What more can he do to me than this? 

"Get her out of my sight!" he orders a Ringwraith. "Take her to the chambers of the forgotten." 

I am in the dark, curled up with my chin on my knees; my cell is not big enough to unbend my legs or lift my head. I am not hungry or thirsty, thanks to the collar, though my mouth is dry. Slowly, I become aware of the cry; not a sound, exactly, but memories the stones hold of anguish too deep for words. _Or of minds too pain-shattered to form them!_

This is no cell, but a tomb! 

You will not leave me here. You made sure I could not die; surely you will come soon and put me to torment. _Fit payment for my folly._

Why the delay? I do not grow weaker. I am not afraid of this darkness. _What is it I fear, then?_

I have no weaknesses, no vulnerabilities. I stand alone, depending on no one. There are parts of myself that I withheld from Celeborn, even from Finrod. No one knows my mind as intimately as you have come to. Does the thought please you? 

I can't stand this fear any longer! I built layers of defenses around it. I killed and betrayed to hide it. 

Remind me I'm not alone. I need something to fight, someone other than myself to blame. Grant me just one last self-delusion. Let me pretend to be strong one more time. Let me pretend I didn't throw everything away for nothing. 

Why do you not reply, Sauron? 

_Are you even listening?_


	2. Maedhros

**Choices: Maedhros**

_Less evil shall we do in the breaking._

I can find no fault in those words, but I can't agree. Give up now, and everything we've done, every drop of blood shed, our very existence, is in vain. 

I don't want to fight. I don't even want to think of blood. All I want is to hold a Silmaril. 

Even if my hand has to stained with still more blood first? 

Only a Silmaril can get the blood off. 

_Their oath shall drive them, and yet betray them..._

If anything can. 

I just want to be right, to be clean, to have something worth fighting for. 

Is anything worth murdering for? 

I have to regain the Silmarils! I have to! 

_...and ever snatch away the very treasures they have sworn to pursue._

I have to try anyway. Don't I? Father would. 

Father was the one who got us in this mess in the first place. 

"Have you made a decision yet?" 

"I can't, Maglor. I just don't know what to do. I'm not Father." 

"You proved yourself twice the leader he ever was." 

I'm not Father, but I bear his sword; mine was taken by Morgoth. 

I stand and draw it. In the firelight, it looks like its already tasted blood. My reflection has blood-red hair and eyes like starless night. 

That's not how I want to be! 

That's what I've become. 

The only question is what I'm going to do about it. 

I fling the sword away from me as far as I can. 

I didn't want it to stick in a tree! 

_To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well._

My left foot against the tree trunk, I tug on the sword. Nothing. 

Finally I collapse against the tree. 

"I'm sorry." I whisper, placing my hand on the tree trunk. 

It leaves a trace of blood! I look down. My foot is bleeding; it must have slipped. 

I leave the beautiful young tree and stagger back to the campfire. This isn't the first time I wish Fingon had killed me.   
  


* * *

We never did try to regain the Silmarils and my foot never did properly heal; I must walk with a staff. 

One evening, we come across a beautiful old tree. As I admire it, I see that its graceful structure is marred by a lump. I put my hand in it, sensing the sword buried inside. I turn to go. 

"Wait!" The voice belongs to a human boy who was in the tree. He climbs down, using the lump as a step. "Are you elves? I've never seen elves before!" 

Maglor permits himself a few minutes of conversation. The boy lives with his mother in a nearby village; his father had been the blacksmith. 

"Maybe you can stay in our village for tonight." 

It would be nice to find honest work, to sleep in a bed and not have to move on each day. A smith doesn't need two good feet, and I learned how to work one-handed long ago. 

If only we dared! 

_The Dispossessed shall they be forever._

The boy puts his hand on the lump and briefly closes his eyes. 

"What are you doing?" 

The boy looks at me and grins. "Thanking Yavanna for putting that lump there. I couldn't climb the tree without it!"   
  


* * *

Text in italics is from the Simarillion. See chapters 9 (The Doom of the Noldor) and 24. 


	3. Fëanor

**Choices: Fëanor**

The intruder moves swiftly down the dark stairs. He thrusts the ornate doors open, heedless of their betraying creak; his goal is too near at hand. The Silmarils blaze in greeting as he enters the room and confronts the dark figure on the throne. 

"You! I should have known," says Morgoth. "You're as stubborn a fool as your father was. Do you truly believe you can face me alone?" 

Eyes blazing, the intruder draws his sword. As Morgoth raises his hand, there is an explosion.   
  


* * *

Who can say why the Ice claims one and not another? I have seen people considered strong in body and spirit perish, spirits fleeing spent bodies almost before they can fall into the snow. I have seen others struggle, taxing body and spirit just to reach the next camp, yet rise after a few hours rest to struggle anew. I have seen youths and maidens unaccustomed to concerns other than hunting and festivals become true leaders. And I have seen one who fancied himself a king barely able to put one foot in front of the other. 

It is not the strongest or the most disciplined that survive, nor those with the brightest spirits. What, then, does the Helcaraxë test? Why such reluctance to leave each camp? 

What makes each slow step so burdensome? 

I walk on, focusing on the steady rhythm of my steps, the crunch of snow crushed between my feet. The wind blows; the snow shimmers. 

As I feel the ice pressed against my cheek, I try to think of a reason to get up.   
  


* * *

It is a time of festival. Many welcome the opportunity to forget recent events; I am not one of them. 

The greetings exchanged are brief and polite, if more formal than is customary among close kin. They would not dare greet me otherwise. 

"I win the bet, Turvo," a voice whispers. "Your best knife, please." 

"But he always wears the Silmarils to festivals." 

"Not when he's mad about being ordered to attend." 

I turn around and glare at the whisperers. Turgon disappears into the crowd and Galadriel tucks the knife into her belt. She has the audacity to thank me. 

"Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be," he says. He speaks of reunion, but you cannot mend what was never there to be marred. I respond as duty dictates. 

The festival shines with mingled treeslight and it seems that the whole world rejoices. Would that I were free to rejoice with it! 

Suddenly, all is dark. 

It is not the starlit shadows of Father's stories; this Darkness enmeshes and muffles the senses. 

Where is everyone? Where is everything? I can see nothing, hear nothing, sense nothing. Is the rest of the world still there? Are my Silmarils? 

After I force myself to calm down, I lie down and spread out, touching as much ground as I can to prove it's still there. Suddenly, my hand brushes against Fingolfin's; once more, he takes it. 

"Don't let go, brother!" his voice comes, sounding faint and remote. 

"I won't," I reply confidently. "I never thought to see you frightened."   
  


* * *

_The Darkness has me!_ I think for a second, but it is only the chill of the Ice. Strange; my cheek is the only part of me that's relatively warm. 

Slowly, I realize that I'm wrapped in furs, lying beside a fire. How did I get here? 

A cup of warm broth is put to my lips. I drink, and manage to open my eyes enough to see Maedhros's copper-framed face. "Hang on, Father" 

"How is he?" Fingolfin asks. _The last person I would want to show weakness to._

"Awake. We must get him off this accursed ice, and soon!" 

"We'll try, even if it means carrying him all the way." 

_Carrying_ me! Oh, _no_! 

As I find myself drifting away again, I hear him say, "Don't let go, brother!"   
  


* * *

"I am not alone." Morgoth looks up in surprise as the explosion shatters the roof. A rope is lowered and Fingolfin makes his entrance with his customary perfect timing, closely followed by my sons. 

Morgoth calls for aid, but his troops are scattered or slain. Too long he delayed, watching me walk into his clutches while my kin took Angband layer by layer, hall by hall. The only ones to pass through the door are Finarfin and my nephews and nieces. 

He looks around, reaches out with his awareness, but there is no escape. Outside, our army waits. 

As I look around at my companions, my kin, I see black hair and brown, red hair, and gold. We're all weary and more than a little nervous. Some of us are better at hiding it than others; none let it affect them. Then I notice one more thing. Something I've always known but never really seen. 

All eighteen of us have eyes of the same blue-grey.   
  


* * *

The Trees are dead! 

The words sound strange, as if in a foreign tongue. They conjure up no mental image; the concept is inconceivable. 

At least it was until it became reality. 

Reality or no, it remains as inconceivable as giving up my Silmarils. That, too, would be reality if the Valar have their way. Why must everyone covet my Silmarils? 

The crowd is silent, awaiting my answer. They want light, perhaps even need it. Not so much to see by, but to know it exists. 

They want _my_ light. 

How can I grant Yavanna's request? How can I deny it? 

What is Maedhros doing here?   
  


* * *

The Trees are dead. 

Father is dead. 

How many inconceivable things can happen in one day? 

"The Enemy came during the blinding Darkness. Grandfather was the only one who dared fight." 

"And the Silmarils?" I ask Maedhros. 

He makes no reply. 

"I will not rest until we have achieved our vengeance!" cries Caranthir. 

Curufin nods approvingly. "Let us take back what is ours, Father!" 

Once again, I have no answer.   
  


* * *

As I step forward and draw my sword, a west wind blows the clouds away, sending a sunbeam into Morgoth's throne room. 

I strike not for vengeance, for that will not bring Father back, nor to mend what has been marred, for that is not so simply accomplished. I strike not for justice, though there is justice that his world should be marred as he marred ours, nor that tomorrow be better, for that is not guaranteed. 

I strike for Truth. 

I turn again to my family, Silmarils in hand. 

"It is not right that one so strong should be so fearful." Though Galadriel's voice is calm, Finrod puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

"None of us," I reply, "is meant to stand alone."   
  


* * *

Turvo: nickname for Turgon modeled after the nicknames in HoME12 


End file.
